


Don't You Want to Share the Guilt?

by WolfMarauder



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blink and you'll miss it, Domestic Violence, Grief, Miscarriage, Mourning, Mycroft has a Chemical Defect, No shipping, Paternal Lestrade, Reichenbach Fall, Sally isn't that bad?, fake suicide, mention of prostitution, mentions of drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-01-19 23:23:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1487941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfMarauder/pseuds/WolfMarauder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of oneshots looking a the reactions of various characters after the fall.  Written before season 3, so not completely canon compliant.  Originally posted  on fanfiction.net<br/>POVs:  Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Sally, Mycroft, and Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. When a Good Man Dies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade can't bring himself to look at Sherlock's body, but you know what they say: Seeing is believing. Sometimes believing is the first step to acceptance.

Lestrade couldn't bring himself to see the body. Cold, eyes dull, laid out on a slab. Would they even do an autopsy, since the cause of death was so obvious? Boring, he would say. Lestrade couldn't bear the thought of Molly cutting in to him, cracking open his chest, and all the unpleasant things that happened to one's body after death. She wouldn't trust anyone else to do it, though. If Sherlock Holmes was to have an autopsy, Molly would be the one to perform it; as it should be. No, that was sick. Molly should not be forced to rifle through the body and brain she once loved, and possibly still did.

Donovan went with him to respond to the call—God, was it really only three hours ago? "Impossible," she had breathed, watching the A&E team pulling Sherlock's limp and bloodied form from the pavement and on to a stretcher in an exercise in futility. They did not rush for very long. He had rounded on the Sargent. He had never been tempted to strike a woman in his life, but now his fingers twitched.

"Impossible," he had shouted, "What is so impossible about this? Impossible that this is your fault? Are you proud that you brought a great man to this?"

"No," she stammered, "I… I mean… he's not… he wasn't the sort to give up and kill himself. He was too bloody proud for that."

"That shows you how well you really knew him. You were there for the call out for his last overdose. Answer me this, how does a genius whose specialty is human biochemistry manage to overdose himself by that much? If you haven't figured that out in all the years you knew him, you are more dim than even he thought. Please remove yourself from my sight, and more importantly leave before John sees you. Go process the scene on the rooftop if you want to be helpful."

She had nodded, shamefaced. She walked to the front doors of the hospital. She passed by Anderson, who grabbed her arm. Sally pushed him off with barely a pause. Lestrade sighed; he would deal with her later. Now the only thing he could possibly think to do was to follow the way Sherlock's body had gone. Irrationally, he wanted to follow to berate the hospital staff that had given up on him, to push them out of the way and start CPR. It had worked once before, why shouldn't it work once again?

That was why Lestrade didn't need to see Sherlock's body. He had seen him dead once before, and that was one too many times. He didn't know him very much at all then, even less than he did now. He was just some kid genius junkie then, drugged off his head every time he saw him, but still so very clever. The arrogant nineteen-year-old boy had been a nuisance at first, but Lestrade hated to see that kind of brain go to waste before his eyes and made a point to check in on him every so often. Thank God he did, because one day he found Sherlock passed out on the floor in his hovel of a dwelling. He was unresponsive, and Lestrade could not find a pulse. He dialed 999 as he searched frantically at his neck and wrist but could not even detect a flutter in his still-warm body.

Lestrade had bullied Sherlock's unwilling body back to life then and later bullied an only slightly more willing Sherlock into sobriety. He had made such progress in the years after that. His relationship with John—not romantic but still so much more than friendship—had been the final proof for Lestrade. Sherlock was well on his way to becoming both good and great. He no longer caught himself panicking when his texts went unanswered, fearing he would find the genius dead face-down in a gutter somewhere. He could practically feel Sherlock next to him saying, "How did you not see? It was so obvious!" The specter of the detective did not deign tell him what he had missed, and he could not even see the warning signs in hindsight himself. Going through the last twenty four hours was like picking through a fresh gash with a salty blade.

A sudden, horrible thought flashed in his brain, and it made him want to retch. Lestrade found himself wondering if it would have been better for the brilliant genius to have died then of an "accidental" overdose, a nobody junkie face-down in the gutter, than a proud man suffering a very publicized fall from grace and a suicide that was obviously intentional. Either way he will have died alone. He could have died a nobody, but Lestrade made sure he died a laughingstock.  
At least then he wouldn't have dragged John down with him, had he died chasing highs instead of criminals. Lestrade had seen the usually stoic army doctor sitting on a gurney. He was covered in blood, Sherlock's blood. A paramedic came to wrap a fluorescent orange shock blanket about his shoulders, but it only made the man sob even louder.

"I'm in shock. Look, I've got a blanket."

Lestrade wanted to offer the man some comfort, but couldn't bring himself to face him. Sherlock's death was, after all, largely his fault. He could try to blame Donovan and Anderson. He could hate Moriarty with all his heart and soul. Hell, he could even try to get angry at Sherlock himself, but Lestrade would always be the one who went to the higher-ups with suspicions. He would always know that for a moment, he too began to wonder. Given the choice between the man he considered like a son to him and his career, he had made a horrible mistake.

The guilt bore down on him, threatening to crush him under its weight. Lestrade could do nothing to keep it at bay. Perhaps that was the crux of the matter. Had Sherlock died in a gutter, Lesteade would not have felt this guilt, this suffocating grief. There would have been a sadness and pity for a young life wasted, but Sherlock's ghost would have joined a host of others that only haunted him on particularly hard days when the job just became too much. Now, figment-Sherlock has not left him since he saw the A&E crew give up on the real Sherlock.

He was so lost in his grief he did not immediately notice Molly standing in front of him. In fact, he did not register her presence until she placed a tentative hand on his shoulder. His head snapped up, causing Molly to jump back in surprise. He suddenly realized he was crying and rubbed furiously at his tears. He did not have the right to cry in front of Molly. Not when she was suffering from grief he caused.

"I want to see him.. I mean, his body…" he found himself mumbling thickly.

No! No, His mind screamed, that is the exact opposite of what I want! But he knew he needed to. He needed to confirm that he could do no more for Sherlock. That the man who he had always mistaken for superhuman and invincible was truly dead. Irrationally, he was still holding on to the hope that the bloody genius had survived the fall and would be sitting in the swivel chair in Molly's lab when he entered. He needed to crush that hope if he ever hoped to come to terms with what he had done.

"I…" Molly stuttered, looking down at her toes, "Just… Let me clean him up a bit. He wouldn't want… I mean, wouldn't have wanted you to see him all… like that. It will just be a moment."

Lestrade nodded and Molly ran back into the morgue to attend to the body of the man she loved. She seemed to be holding it all together remarkably well. Lestrade had to admire her strength, but almost wished she would cry. Then he could comfort her and feel useful. Now he just felt like his very presence was forcing her to fight to postpone her own grief. He wondered who the pathologist had to help her through.

Just as Molly said, it took just a moment. She returned for Lestrade long before he was ready to dash any stubborn hopes he held for Sherlock's survival. Molly grasped his hand in encouragement to get him through the doors. All the morgue tables were empty except for one. A tall, lean figure was laid out on it, covered completely in a white sheet. A stainless steel bowl was sat on the trolley holding the surgical tools. The water was red with blood. Lestrade approached the table with his eyes clenched shut.

Please don't be Sherlock. Please don't be Sherlock, he chanted childishly in his mind.

He felt Molly release his hand to uncover the body, and opened his eyes hesitantly. Lestrade drew a sharp breath and exhaled a sob. Sherlock's head and shoulders were uncovered. He almost looked like he was sleeping, so much more peaceful than he had on the pavement, so much more than he had in life. His mop of dark curls obscured the surely substantial damage to his skull, and he had died before bruises had much of a chance to form. The barest hint of purple shaded his body on the left side. His lips and eyelids were blue. Lestrade bit his knuckles in an attempt to stem the coming of tears. Molly patted his arm in comfort, shaking with tears herself.

"I'll just… just give you a mo…moment, shall I?" Molly stuttered in between tears.

Lestrade nodded numbly. For a long while he simply stared at Sherlock's still face, tears flowing in earnest now that he was alone.

"Sh…Sherlock," he choked, "I…God, I'm… I'm so, just so sorry. You were… the greatest…greatest man I will ever know…and a damn good one, too…the very best…I'm…I'm sorry I didn't see…see it sooner. God!" He took a deep, steadying breath and reached out to touch Sherlock's hand. He followed the line of his thumb up to his wrist and rested his fingers there. No pulse. He buried his face in his hands, unable to look one more minute at the corpse before him, his vision blurred with tears. "Good…goodbye Sh…Sherlock. P…please forgive me if you c…can. S…see you on the other side, even…even if you didn't believe in that…that sort of thing. I hope…I hope there are people there who can…can appreciate you like you deserve. I'm just so…so…sorry. Good…goodbye." Lestrade grasped the cold hand one more time, then turned and left the morgue.

Perhaps it was for the best that his wife had won custody of the girls. After all, he had driven his son, a damn good son, to kill himself. Not exactly the stuff a father-of-the-year is made of.


	2. Brother Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft struggles with the guilt of his brother's death. It seems all he has ever done is fail him. What would mummy say?

Mycroft once believed that cutting off his cocaine addict brother was the hardest thing he would ever do. Later he believed watching the CCTV feed of his brother getting on his knees for drugs and non-essential items like food and shelter was the worse pain he would ever feel. He thought that doing nothing would be the worst guilt he ever felt. He was wrong.  
Mycroft sat with his head in his hands at his desk. It was not the weight of the Common Wealth he bore on his shoulders that had him bowed, but his guilt. Before him, his computer screen was frozen the instant before Sherlock hit the pavement. For once in his life, he didn't want to know. Didn't want to see the evidence of his abject failure. He saw stills of after, his brother sprawled on the ground in a pool of his own blood, and had promptly vomited the contents if his stomach into a bin. Luckily, Anthea had been the only one present. She had cleared his schedule for the foreseeable future and brought him home. He wasn't sure how she did it, and he didn't care all that much. He was having trouble remembering what it was like to care about anything. He had been sat here for almost two days now, stirring only to replenish his brandy. He continued to stare at the last moment of his brother's life though the pain constricted around his lungs as though intent in choking him out. He was suffering from a chemical defect. He had already lost.

He couldn't bear to press play so that his brother's fall would come to its inevitable conclusion. Blood shining on the pavement. The very thought made his stomach turn. Until he saw it play out on his video feed, he could make himself hope that something could happen in those unseen moments that would change everything. If anyone could cheat death, it was Sherlock. He knew it was crippling sentiment that fueled these hopes, not logic, but he couldn't let go of any small glimmer of hope.

It was all his fault. Sherlock may have thrown himself off a building, and Moriarty may have convinced him to do it, but Mycroft had given information to make it happen. In exchange for a few confessions, he had handed a psychopathic genius a loaded gun to use to destroy his brother. Mycroft had never felt more corrupt and vile.

Mycroft was so lost in his grief he did not look up, or even really pay attention, when his study door clicked open. It was probably just Anthea, come to make sure her boss would get a decent night's rest. It probably said something about him that the only person to help him through his grief was his paid PA.

"Hello, brother mine," the visitor said in a rich baritone that most definitely did not belong to Anthea. Mycroft froze. Perfect, not only had he caved to sentiment, he was hallucinating. Irrationality was abound. Surly he hadn't had that much to drink? Maybe he had. A rough sob broke free from his chest for the first time in years. He looked up slowly, half unwilling to break the illusion.

Mycroft blinked in incredulity. He could see Sherlock. Hearing a voice once, a vivid memory really, was excusable. Seeing things meant he was surly going mad. He drank in the image of his brother nonetheless. His face looked strangely blank as he crossed the room to sit at the desk. The chair he sat down in moved and reacted the way a chair should. Could he really imagine that? And would he imagine his brother with such a look of... concern flitting across his features. Somehow, against all odds, Sherlock survived. "Are you... Did you really... How?" For once, the unflappable Mycroft was at a loss for words.

"I am alive," Sherlock said, "I presumed you would have seen through the ruse when you watched the CCTV."

"I couldn't finish it. I didn't was to see you die," Mycroft muttered, turning the frozen monitor around for Sherlock to see.

"I am sorry, brother," Sherlock said softly, "I had no idea you would be so affected."

"Affected?" Mycroft spluttered, "How could I possibly not be affected by my brother's suicide?"

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage," Sherlock recited, raising an eyebrow in a challenge.

"You are the exception. You have always been the exception."

"That didn't stop you from selling my life story to Moriarty," he challenged.

Mycroft winced. "I will regret that until the day I die, but you must understand, I never dreamed Moriarty would escape."

"A criminal genius who staged a mass breakout of Pentonville Prison and it did not occur to you he may escape your clutches? Never mind, your ever expanding ego, like your ever expanding girth, never surprises me anymore. I have come to you to inform you that I will be leaving to eliminate Moriarty's network. I do not know how long I will be away, but I am going alone. I will need identities, money, a gun, as well as dossiers on all known affiliates. I'm sure you will manage that within a week. After that, I will ask you to stay out of my life."

"Please, how will I even know you are alive?"

"I will contact you once a fortnight, because you will be running security on John, Mrs. Hudson, DI Lestrade, and Molly Hooper. If anyone discovers I am alive, the will be killed. Eliminate the assassins assigned to John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if you and do it quietly. If not, leave well enough alone. See to it you are more efficient in their protection than you were in mine."

"I will keep them safe. The Queen herself will not have better security," Mycroft assured him, studying him carefully. He did not seem angry, but some thinly veiled emotion ran beneath the surface. His brother was deeply unhappy, and Mycroft knew he was to blame. He had destroyed his reputation and separated him from the only one he counted as a friend.

Sherlock rose from his chair, setting down the paperweight he had been twiddling with while he spoke out of nervous habit. "Well, thank you Mycroft," he said, "This is goodbye, I suppose. Do try to stay on your diet." He smirked at his attempt at humor.

"Please, take care of yourself... You know how Mummy worries."

"Of course," Sherlock nodded and turned to the door.

"I am sorry, Sherlock, you must believe me."

"There is nothing to be sorry for. You acted exactly as I knew you would, in the interest for Queen and Country. Moriarty is dead, and I can do away with his web now. The common good has won out," he said with some bitterness, "In any case, I absolve you of your guilt. You are forgiven."

"Goodbye, little brother," Mycroft called to him, "Thank you."

"Goodbye, My," he said with a smirk, using the long forgotten childhood nickname. Mycroft thought it strange how that felt more like forgiveness than anything else.

"Godspeed, brother," he whispered after the door clicked shut. He turned to the computer and minimized the CCTV feed. He had arrangements to make.


	3. Her Beautiful Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha Hudson has lost much in her life. This new grief is not unfamiliar. It never gets easier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written before season 3, so the new information about Mrs. Hudson is not reflected in this chapter. I just made up a back story and went with it. Hope you enjoy it anyway! Please review!

Martha Hudson's baby boy was born with a sprinkling of jet black curls. She had almost carried him to term. He would have survived, if she hadn't fallen down the stairs. At least, she told the A&E nurse she had fallen; she did not mention she had help. It was a familiar lie told in many an A&E. Her baby was still born, she never even got to feel his heartbeat. The baby that had been so active is her womb was lifeless outside of it. She had held him in her arms and ran her fingers through the dark fuzz of hair on his head before the doctors took him away.

The doctors said that her boy died of a fractured skull. The injuries sustained in the fall were incompatible with life. We are sorry for your loss ma'am. The loss of her beautiful boy with the jet black curls.

The doctors asked but she did not want to give him a name him when he was not alive to hear it. They called him "Baby John Hudson" for record-keeping purposes. Martha decided that she quite liked the name and often referred to her baby as John when she thought about the brief moment she held him. She returned home with James and things returned to normal, like they had never had a baby. Rather, after she was severely reprimanded for losing his son and then things went back to normal.

Years passed, and fewer people called her Martha, and almost everyone around her called her Mrs. Hudson. All her friends became mums, but she took her birth control religiously. She could not bear the thought of losing another child, despite her dreams of being a mother. She would not let James near another child, not so long as she lived. She looked longingly at her friends' children and would occasionally walk to the park to watch them play. A glimpse of a boy with curly black hair never failed to make her breath hitch and a bittersweet smile to appear. She wondered sometimes if she would have had the courage to leave him for the sake of her son, if he had lived. She liked to think she would have.

James took a job that often called him away on business to Florida. She suspected there was a woman on the side, but she did not care, whatever it took to get him away. When he was home, he would continue the cycle of drinking, abusing, and apologizing, but she could get up to two weeks of respite at a time, not to mention the days when he was always at work. She even thought he might be becoming gentler. He did not drink so much if he was busy making money, and that meant less hitting and booze-fueled kisses. Still, she hated him even more with every childless year that passed. The murderer.

Sixteen years passed this way, until James was transferred to Tampa for a permanent position. Of course, he demanded his wife accompany him. She no longer got the respite she wanted, but James at least went away some nights to see his other woman. Again, she did not care, liked it, actually. She only hoped he did not hit her too. No one called her Martha here, only Mrs. Hudson.

When the police came to knock on her door, she knew it had finally happened. He had hit his other woman too hard. He would not get away with murder this time. The police crowded her porch, and the blue police lights cast their faces in shadow, and there in the back of the crowd was her little boy all grown up. Not  _her_ baby boy, but he looked so much like she imagined he could have. She could not take her eyes off of him.

"Mrs. Hudson?" the officer asked, and she nodded, "I am Officer Peterson, is your husband James Hudson home?"

"No, sir," she answered, "I suspected he was going to meet his other woman tonight."

"Uh… you knew your husband was having an affair?" the officer asked, casting a loaded glance to his partner.

"Oh for goodness sakes!" the dark-haired boy cried, " _She_ did not kill her husband's mistress! Look at the state of her wrists!  _Idiots!_ " He spoke with a perfectly posh English accent. Martha nearly cried. "Can't you see he is abusing her just like he did his other woman?"

"Ma'am, this is a bit… unorthodox… but would you mind speaking with our… um…"

"Consultant," the boy with the jet black curls interrupted.

"Consultant," the officer agreed, "He is helping us with your husband's case."

And that was the beginning of her acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes. He had ensured his husband paid for the death of their baby and his mistress, as well as the pain he caused her for much of their marriage. He was sentenced to death, and she and Sherlock returned to London before the sentence was carried out. She felt such a weight leave her heart when she walked through the gate at Heathrow with the strange young man with curly black hair.

For the next ten years, she had kept him under her wing as much as she could, anyway. He was an independent soul. He let out one of her flats off and on for years. The dear did have some bad habits, but she did her very best to help him out of his slumps. Her boy was a lonely soul, just because no one could appreciate his cleverness. For the last two years, he was joined by John, who became his best friend. She liked that he was called John. It seemed fitting in a way. She was so proud of her boys, both of them now, and proud of Sherlock especially for letting the world see some small measure of the heart of gold she knew he had. He had once thrown someone out of the window and onto her bins just because he had hit her once! Despite her claims of, "I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," she secretly liked taking care of her boys.

She never doubted him, but never got to tell him. It all happened so fast. Maybe if she had told him more often how extraordinary he was she would have stayed for her? Probably not, she was only one person, but he would not have died feeling alone. She cried like she had not cried since she lost her little boy, John. She called the hospital, because she just had to know.

The doctors said that her boy died of a fractured skull. The injuries sustained in the fall were incompatible with life. We are sorry for your loss ma'am. The loss of her beautiful boy with the jet black curls.

 


End file.
